


One Step at a Time

by whimsicule



Series: Under the Lights [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicule/pseuds/whimsicule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the summer of 2014, German football wunderkind Mario Götze transfers to Barcelona and falls in love with the club. And his teammate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Step at a Time

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my "Under the Lights"-verse, set two years after Breathing Underwater, though it does stand on its own.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing and I do not foresee the future.

He remembers the first time he experienced a match between Germany and Argentina. It was the quarterfinal of the World Cup 2006 and he and his friends had gone to one of the many public viewings in Dortmund. A big screen, people that could’ve easily filled the Westfalen Stadium, an ocean of colours, flags and excited faces. He remembers the symphony of hope and anxiety shining in countless pairs of eyes, his own beating heart and racing pulse and the thrill of a close win; Lehmann, save, champions is all he could think and say for hours. 

Even more imprinted in his memory is South Africa. Even more flags and colours and blasting Vuvuzelas that made his ears hurt, even through the television speakers. Same place, same people, same hope and anxiety, but a 4-0 thrashing of the Albiceleste that resulted in the worst hangover of his life so far; he’s never put a finger on another bottle of Tequila.

Now is different. Now he isn’t watching. He is wearing the white jersey and feels the weight of the eagle on his chest, feels the wet grass beneath his feet and the dreams and hopes of an entire nation hovering over him like a dark raincloud.  
They call him the biggest talent in German football, a Wunderkind, Götzinho. Every game adds another name that isn’t his, after every win the media creates another human being that isn’t him. 

 

*

 

Mario tries not to think too much. He takes one step at a time, even if they are big ones, just keeps moving. He wins the league with Dortmund, twice. He plays in the Champions League and loses against AC Milan. He scores the winning goal against Spain in the Euro 2012 semifinal. He sets up Thomas’ final shot against Portugal that eventually gets them the crown.  
Two years later he flies to Brazil and just keeps going; against Mexico, France and Japan. Then Portugal, Uruguay and the host nation. He just runs and plays until there’s only one match left.  
They compare him to Messi.

 

*

 

After 93 minutes they lose to Argentina. And for the first time in his life Mario feels unable to move. 

 

*

 

Mario is sitting somewhere on the pitch. He has no clue if it’s in their half or the Argentines’, close to the goal or far away; if he thinks about it, it’s probably the latter.  
After moving in a numbing bubble for more than two hours, the outside finally reaches him. He feels the cold air of a wintery night in Brasilia, it’s like a sudden slap to his skin, harsh and burning and the grass is wet and leaves his shorts and socks soaked. His body aches and his muscles are practically screaming at him, but it is nothing compared to that ripping pain that keeps a firm hold on his heart.

He had really thought they were able to win. Hell, they had all thought it. This team has all the potential in the world, it’s a golden generation and they were supposed to bring the cup home again, after 24 years of waiting. Mario has to swallow some tears, realizing how close they had actually gotten and that makes everything even more frustrating.  
But a Messi brace and another goal by Agüero had killed them, it doesn’t matter that he managed to score an equalizer before half-time. He didn’t do enough. And maybe he is just not enough.

When he sees feet approaching him he is sure that it’s Bastian, maybe Phillip or Manu, all equally disappointed, but still trying to comfort him, because he is new to this scale of losing. Mario still doesn’t want to hear whatever it is they have to say, no words can change the way he feels about this tournament, this match, his own disappointing performance.  
A hand is extended to him and Mario notices a flash of white and blue – bloody Albiceleste – and he looks up, surprised and confused, when quiet and soft words are spoken, in heavily-accented, broken English.

“I’m sorry.”

Mario doesn’t know what to think or feel when he takes Messi’s offered hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet. They are the same height, the same build, but there is an air of experience and maturity radiating from the newly crowned world champion, weirdly intertwined with a childlike lightness and ease that Mario has never been confronted with, not in this way. And for some strange reason, he actually believes that Messi truly is sorry. Something in his stomach twists.

“You played well”, Messis says and Mario can’t bring himself to smile. They’re standing in front of each other, hands still touching. 

He shrugs. “Not well enough”, he answers and he can’t stop his voice trembling slightly, has to bite back tears that he really doesn’t want the other one to see.

Messi smiles and it’s soft and quiet like his voice, barely noticeable, a mere whisper of a gesture.  
“There’s always next time. Believe me. I know.”

Mario figures that Messi really does know; that hardly anyone has experienced quite the same amount of highs and lows with club and country. And if he’s honest, there are not many people who deserve a win quite as much as the Argentine – he followed all of Argentina’s games and he saw his performances and if anyone ever compares him to Messi again then… well, then that person clearly has no understanding of football, in his opinion.

“I guess”, he says and shrugs again, awkwardly lets go of Messis hand and scratches his head. “Hey, you wanna swap?”

The Argentine nods, smile widening. “Of course”, and then they both take off their shirts, exchange one number 10 for the other, winner for loser and vice versa and their goodbye is quiet and quick and they don’t say anything else, but Mario still feels better.  
He turns towards the tunnel and starts walking, head held high, the striped jersey thrown over his shoulder. It’s tough, and it’s difficult, but he will go forward again, like he always does, one step at a time.

 

*

 

By now Mario is used to clubs knocking on Dortmund’s doors, asking to sign him and in the past he has rejected every single offer without as much as looking at it and right after the World Cup, during pre-season, it gets worse.  
He loves the BVB, his teammates and the coach, he has his friends and family close and he had planned on staying until his legs wouldn’t allow him to professionally kick a ball anymore.  
He didn’t want to do what Nuri did.

But Barcelona is different. Somehow. He can’t even explain it. When his agent tells him about their offer he thinks it’s a joke. Because why would they want him?  
He can’t take his mind off it and practice goes terrible, he can’t concentrate and his feet feel like they don’t belong to him and when Jürgen calls him over he knows he’s in trouble. His coach looks at him, all stern but fatherly, asks him what’s wrong and Mario just has to tell him. Jürgen looks at him for a long time, Mario thinks he sees sadness in his eyes, maybe even disappointment, but overall undying pride and support and he’s sure Jürgen knows his decision even before he does.

Both clubs quickly agree on the transfer. Mario flies to Barcelona on Monday night. On Tuesday, he signs his contract, shakes hands, puts on his new kit, all blaugrana, and has pictures taken. He is nervous and excited, lights are flashing in his face, and somehow the crest on his chest feels even heavier than the eagle.

 

*

 

Wednesday is the first time he joins the team for practice.

 

*

 

Mario wakes up two hours early and the sun is just beginning to rise. He didn’t have any problems falling asleep the night before, stress and exhaustion had taken their toll, but now that he’s awake he can’t shake off that slightly sick feeling of nervousness in the pit of his stomach, so he decides to get up, wanders around his small apartment for a bit, looking out the various windows. It’s a small place, he doesn’t need much, he’s only here to play football, and it’s in Barcelona’s centre, not far away from the Camp Nou that he can even see from his kitchen window.

So he sits at the counter for an hour with a bowl of cereal that turns into mush before he even thinks of eating it and watches how the city changes colours and how the sun breathes life into its inhabitants.  
It feels like an entirely different world to Dortmund when the cab – he doesn’t trust himself with knowing the way yet – drives through the bustling streets and drops him of at the training grounds.  
Mario doesn’t know why, but the sky somehow seems so much wider. 

His legs feel like jelly, like two limbs that aren’t his and are just coincidentally attached to his hips and he wants to go on the pitch, touch a ball, and finally feel more stable again. But Pep naturally wants to have a quick talk with him, before they join the group Mario can already see warming up in the sun. Pep talks in English and Mario is glad; he knows a bit of Spanish from school, but he’s far from fluent and he probably wouldn’t be able to remember a single word at the moment. The still so very successful, but even more humble coach tells him about their usual routine and assures him, tells him that there’s no need to worry about anything, that they signed him for a reason and don’t want to change how he plays and who he is.  
Pep is nice and he immediately feels more comfortable, strangely reminded of Jürgen, his former coach. They share the same smile.

Mario gets introduced to the coaches, some staff, but more importantly the other players. He knows a few of them from international friendlies and tournaments, as opponents that he wants to beat and they certainly never widely smiled at him before, teeth showing and all.  
He won’t have any trouble remembering all the names, that’s for sure and Mario can’t help the rush of pride that floods his veins as he finds himself eye to eye with true Barcelona legends; Fábregas, Pedro and Valdes. Piqué, although it’s not literally eye to eye in this case. The newly promoted captain Iniesta. Messi. Or Leo, as the Argentine immediately stresses, with the same warm smile that cheered him up after the World Cup final and Mario thinks for a second that he might have swallowed his own tongue.

“Great to have you here”, he says and Mario feels momentarily dizzy.

Pep quickly encourages them to continue with practice and pairs them off for warm-ups and stretching. Mario barely has time to decipher the Spanish words before he is grabbed and pulled away by Thiago, someone he also knows fairly well from the Euros and the Under-competitions, but of course not personally. He knows that his father was a professional as well, a Brazilian World Champion, that his brother plays for AC Milan in Italy – he scored two very painful goals against Dortmund during the last Champions League season – and that he is one of the many home-grown Barcelona players, a La Masía graduate; the one to replace Xavi. 

Thiago doesn’t give him any time to even slightly feel like ‘the new guy’ and starts talking to him in nearly flawless English. Mario is more than happy with that, because he doesn’t have to concentrate to understand him and furthermore, he doesn’t have to talk himself; he wouldn’t know what to say, not yet.

“I’ve watched you play at the World Cup”, Thiago says suddenly after a long tirade on how they should start to train at night because of the heat and because he loves playing on a mildly wet and black pitch in floodlights. “You were really great. Especially against Brazil. Even though I wasn’t rooting for Germany, of course.”

“Thanks”, Mario answers, blush hidden due to his already by sun and exercise heated face. “You too.”

Thiago grins widely. “Nah, I was okay. Wasn’t really my tournament to be honest.” He pulls a face when Mario pushes his leg down to his chest. “The best team won, right?”

The best player won, is what Mario thinks and glances over to where Messi and Iniesta are stretching – Leo and Andrés, he reminds himself. And it just hits him how surreal everything his. That he is actually going to play with them.  
He never thinks very far ahead of the moment, but he can’t help but wonder how it will all turn out, how well he will fit in and what they are going to create.  
Thiago’s voice cuts through his thoughts again and pulls him back into the present as he tells him not to leave his phone or shoes behind in the locker for the next few days, because Gerard and Cesc have a tendency to pull pranks on the newbies.

 

*

 

Mario has never been particularly interested in girls. When he was little, they annoyed him with their dolls and their giggling. They thought playing football was stupid, so he deemed them stupid in return. Essentially, as he grew older, that didn’t change.  
His first crush had been a guy named Tobi, whom he played football with and it had been difficult for him to accept, initially. He later concluded that he could probably only love someone who loved the game as much as he did.  
In Dortmund, most of his team and his closest friends knew. In Barcelona, it’s an entirely new situation. One that he doesn’t quite know how to deal with yet. 

 

*

 

Their first game of the season is against Deportivo and Mario doesn’t start, but he is far from disappointed and Pep tells him to be ready for the second half, so when they’re all still in the tunnel and he can feel the Camp Nou pulsing and alive, he thinks he’s going to be sick. It’s become such a routine to play for Dortmund and the National team that he has completely forgotten that he used to have really bad stage fright as a teenager. His fingers play with the hem of his substitute shirt; he can see flashing lights, the opposing team, everyone getting ready to leave for the bench.  
Mario is not sure he can walk.

“Don’t be nervous”, someone suddenly tells him and he feels a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Leo smiles warmly and that doesn’t really help the giddiness he is feeling, even if the Argentine means well, but Mario can’t help but still feel inappropriately star-struck whenever they talk. “They will love you. And you will love them.”

Then he gets in line behind Andrés and in front of Cesc and Mario finds a seat on the bench next to Thiago, who has to pause for this game due to a light cold, for which he blames Gerard, because “that goof pushed me into the pool fully-clothed”.  
Mario can’t describe how he is feeling as he watches the team, his team, play from the sideline. He doesn’t think he ever missed watching a replay of a Barcelona game over the last few years, but this is different, and there’s a strange, indefinable tug at his heart when Andrés passes to Sergio, to Cesc, to Leo – and there’s no Xavi ruling the midfield. 

The arguably best midfielder in the world had retired both from international and club football after the World Cup – just a year after Puyol - , surprisingly, injuries overshadowing his last season, but nevertheless always playing with near perfection. Mario remembers his own shock at the news and he still feels it here. Xavi has left and the wound is still bloody and open.  
He glances over to Thiago, now wearing the heavier-than-life number six, and wonders how he deals with everything; how he just seems to shrug off the pressure of having to fill shoes that are too big and don’t have any laces to tighten them.

Mario himself is already a mess without having to life up to anyone. 

Leo scores, Andreu heads the ball in for the 2-0 from a brilliant corner taken by Cesc and just before the halftime whistle blows, the Deportivo goalkeeper can’t deny Alexis’ shot.  
After that, Mario can’t seem to hear, feel or see anything. Thiago pulls him to the locker room and back to the bench, he isn’t aware of the clearly worried glances going his way and when the second half starts, his head is spinning like a carousel.  
Thiago takes his shaking hand and gives it a firm squeeze. Mario looks at him.

“You’ll be fine.” 

And that’s all. But he still feels better, less floating and more grounded and just a few minutes later, he has to take off the subs kit to warm up. It’s the 60th minute when Pep waves him over to the sideline; he feels the 11 burning on his back and the Barcelona crest thumping on his chest like a second heartbeat, the atmosphere of the Camp Nou seizing through his body like an electric shock. He claps hands with Andrés, who also draws him in for a quick hug, starts running towards the middle and his anxiety has vanished. Just like that.

He doesn’t score that night, but he provides the assist for Leo’s second goal and Mario is sure nothing feels as perfect as the crowd exploding around them and Leo’s arms tight around his neck.

 

*

 

Mario starts to hang out with the guys from the squad a lot and he likes it, likes that it’s a family, much like the BVB is, and they don’t allow him any time to miss Mats and Kevin and Marcel and all the others. He should probably feel bad about it, but he thinks about home occasionally and there’s just too much going on in his life right now. He’s sure they’d understand.  
Cesc and Gerard drag him out clubbing once and it’s fun, but Mario prefers it more quiet, football gives him all the excitement he needs anyway, so instead they have tournaments on the Play – where Leo beats the shit out of him – or go around Barcelona early in the morning or very late at night, when no one is around to recognize them.  
One night after a match, Thiago takes him to the beach and they kick an old ball about until their shorts are soaked and the sun starts to rise. 

 

*

 

His Spanish gets better, mostly from talking to Leo and Gerard teases him for picking up a slight Argentinean drawl. Mario blushes; Leo laughs and says he likes it. Thiago continues to speak to him in English.

 

*

 

“Have you ever thought about leaving?” he asks Leo randomly one time when they’re at practice. 

They’re in the shade, but it’s still rather hot, and Leo’s sitting on a football, throwing his bottle of water from one hand to the other. Mario sits next to him, legs stretched. They do this a lot, ask each other basically unrelated questions and Mario likes it, because Leo almost always surprises him with his answers.

“Once”, the forward answers after a moment of silence. “When Dinho left. It didn’t feel like home for a while.”

Mario looks to the ground, gets what Leo means, swallows.

“Why did you eventually?” the Argentine asks then and Mario shrugs.

“I just wanted to. No reason”, he answers and is aware that he might, for the first time, be lying a little bit.

 

*

 

It surprises Mario how fast he is adapting, that the Barcelona style feels like second nature to him, that he actually fits in like a bone in a socket.  
Things really fall into place when he starts a match for the first time, sharing the attacking midfield with Thiago.  
They play themselves into frenzy and their opponents into immobility and it feels electrical, like magic and Mario thinks, this is what he came for, this exactly; nothing more, nothing less. Just football.

 

*

 

Mario scores his first goal in October. It’s also the first El Clásico of the season.

 

*

 

Mario knows all the drama that seems to naturally come along with every clash between Barcelona and Madrid and he thinks he’s prepared for it; he’s played games like this before, Dortmund against Schalke, and he thinks it’s the same.  
Just that it’s not. El Clásico is an entirely different hemisphere and the media basically goes insane over it and Mario tries to avoid the news and what the papers write and doesn’t want the outside to affect him.

They play at the Bernabéu and he’s standing in the tunnel alongside Andrés and Leo, thinking of everything Pep and the others said to him, of the passes and runs he wants to make. He can hear the whistling and booing, wants to ignore the hostile reception, because he can’t let things like that get to him.  
The Real players line up next to them and Mario quickly hurries over and says hi to Mesut and Sami, because he knows them, likes them, they get along really well when they’re on national duty; it’s just the decent thing to do.

He walks past Nuri without even looking at him, because… He just can’t help it, it’s been ages since Nuri left Dortmund for Madrid and now Mario has left himself, but the Turkish national player still seems like a traitor in his eyes. Leaving them, leaving him, right after winning the first League title together, without a proper goodbye, breaking the team, breaking his heart.

Leo senses the tension in his shoulders. He takes his hand, gives it a squeeze, Mario doesn’t need to explain anything. The Argentine only let’s go of him when they’re leaving for the pitch and the Bernabéu feels like a massive, beating heart, bleeding white and pulsating with vicious chants and vulgar banners.  
But Mario doesn’t care, they will play like always, win like always and drive a sharp dagger into the Blanco soul. 

 

They’re already 2-0 up after the first 45 minutes are over, Pep’s happy, the team’s happy, the atmosphere in the changing room is great and Mario didn’t know he could actually feel so smug about beating Madrid on their own turf.  
“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” Thiago says and leans on him when they’re walking back out. Mario thinks he feels his lips brushing his ear, but he’s not sure and it’s over before he can process it.

It gets nasty during the second half. Mario loses count on how many times he goes down or somebody hacks at his shins. His legs hurt and will most likely be covered in stud-like bruises by tomorrow. But he keeps quiet, gets up and brushes the dirt and grass off his shorts; the Madrid players can foul him as much as they like, he’s not going to give in.  
He takes a quick free kick and starts another attack, passes to Andrés, to Thiago, to Leo, back to Cesc and then forward to Thiago, who’s making a run for goal, gets close to the box and Mario is almost certain that it’s a goal.

Sami and Ramos close down on him, miss the ball and it looks like they’re crushing Thiago’s leg between their feet. He goes down, Mario can’t hear his scream, but he can see it in his face and he can feel it in his chest and something snaps in his head, that was the last straw and he loses his composure, feels sick with anger and frustration and worry and he’s over there before anyone else, shoves Sami, away from Thiago, who’s obviously hurt. He’s shouting insults, a colourful mix of German, Spanish and English, gets pushed around and pushes back with all the energy he has left, ready to throw the first punch without really knowing what’s gotten into him all of a sudden.

Someone grabs him by the back of his shirt and pulls him back, away from the angry crowd, firm and fiercely and then there’s an arm around his neck and his cheek is pressed into Leo’s neck, who tells him to calm down, to stay focused and Mario’s head is buzzing.

He gets yellow-carded, but he doesn’t give a shit. 

Five minutes before the final whistle, he receives a perfect pass from Sergio, dances around Nuri, around Ramos and Arbeloa and sends the ball past Casillas and into the net.

 

*

 

Two days after that important victory, Xavi visits them during practice. Mario feels so humbled by his presence that he doesn’t manage to say a word, just stays back, quiet, watching, and it feels strange, because Xavi is Barça, still, more than anyone, and he’s just-  
Andrés comes up and stands next to him and Mario can see the fondness in his eyes as he watches his former partner, and he wonders.

“Do you miss him?”

Andrés smiles, bittersweet, like he’s deeply lost in memories. “Every second.” 

 

*

 

Mario doesn’t realize how quickly he has actually adapted to Barcelona until he meets up with the National Team for a friendly against Sweden in November.  
He is looking forward to it, he really is, he’s missed the guys, especially Toni, Mats and Kevin. He expects the usual jokes, the banter and the little pranks from the Bayern guys.  
What he doesn’t expect are the weird looks he gets from some as soon as he walks into the hotel lobby, oddly calculating and almost defensive, but he doesn’t have the time to ponder on them, because he is immediately surrounded by his former teammates from Dortmund, who pull him into hug after hug and make him feel guilty for not missing them more.

“Fucking high-flyer!” Kevin grins wide and drapes a long arm over his shoulder and sort of drags him over to a small group of armchairs where they were probably sitting before. “How’s mighty Barcelona treating you, huh?”

Mario drops down, glad to have the weight of his luggage off his shoulders and scratches his head, tries to think of a way to sum up his last few months.

“It’s great”, is what he eventually settles for, because it is and there’s no other way of saying it and he can’t help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and the warm feeling spreading through his chest.

Kevin shakes his head, laughing. “We’ve all been watching, you know? Every Barça game is like a fucking team meeting now. Playing and scoring with all the big guns now. I always knew you were gonna be too much for Dortmund one day.”

Mario can’t tell if Kevin is joking or not, but he guesses the winger means it as a compliment.

“Shut up”, he says. “Dortmund is great.”

“You better mean that! Because we’re sharing a room and you don’t want to be on my black list. The things I could do to you while you’re asleep…” and he wiggles his eyebrows and they all crack up.

Later that evening the entire squad is in a lounge, watching Argentina play their friendly against Italy and Mario isn’t feeling too great.  
He’s tried to ignore the fact that Mesut and Sami are practically ignoring him, that Basti and Thomas are treating him with total indifference, but it’s getting to him, because he doesn’t understand. They’re all playing for different clubs and have always been rivals outside the National Team and it’s never been an issue and just because he’s now playing for Barcelona doesn’t mean he’s suddenly the enemy. 

The game starts and it feels strange to see Leo play and not be on the pitch with him and Mario watches and in his mind, he imagines the runs he would make to receive his passes, the many crosses and touch-and-go’s and he can’t take his eyes off him and he’s glad that the camera stays on Leo for most of the match. 

“Fuck this”, Bastian says all of a sudden during the second half. “You can’t even root for one of the teams. Choosing between Italy and Argentina, that’s like choosing between death and torture.”

He’s half-kidding and they all just take it as a joke and Basti is probably right in a way, because both Italy and Argentina have denied them the World Cup trophy before and the Bayern Munich captain was there both times.  
Mario only smiles lightly at his teammate’s remark and continues to watch the game, eyes glued to the screen, glued to Leo, who dribbles, passes and sets up two goals in ten minutes, and his heart is beating in his chest and he realizes he misses him already, even though it hasn’t even been two days since they last spoke. 

An Italian defender stops the Argentina captain in his stride and it’s clear from every angle that he went for his legs instead of the ball and Leo’s down, the referee doesn’t even award a free-kick and before Mario even knows what he’s doing, he jumps up and shouts at the TV.

“You idiot!” and he means the ref, “That was a fucking yellow, at least!”

“That was a fucking dive.”

His head turns to Sami. “What?”

“You heard me”, he says and then a bit quieter, “Bunch of divers.”

Mario steps forward. That’s an insult, an insult to Leo, to Barça, to him. Before he can do or say anything though, Mats pulls him back and Manuel speaks up.

“Calm down, guys. This is not El Clásico.”

“I’m not gonna fucking calm down”, Mario nearly shouts. “I’m not gonna take this bullshit from you! It’s never been a problem before, I don’t get it. Mourinho’s really gotten into your head, huh?” He frees himself from Mats’ grip. “Fuck, I need some air.”

He steps out onto the terrace and it’s bloody freezing, there’s frost on the lawn and he can see his breath coming out in little, white puffs and he rubs his arms, doesn’t want to go back in to get a jacket, so he just sits down on the ground and tries to get his head back together again.  
Mario is angry. With Sami, with Mourinho and Real Madrid for ruining the one thing he loves, he’s angry with himself for already being so devoted to Barcelona that it hurts when someone insults them without even knowing why. He’s only been there since August, he spent half of his life at Dortmund and never got this offended.  
But maybe that’s it. Dortmund was a natural thing, a steady progress; Barcelona is the reward for all his hard work and commitment and they risked a lot in signing him, the first German player for many years, and Pep and everyone have just embraced him like one of their own and he’s just so fucking grateful and happy.  
But the majority of the National squad somehow supports Madrid, maybe because of Mesut and Sami, because they’ve been playing there for a few years, and Mario’s fine with that, he really is. He just wishes his teammates could be a bit happier for him after all that they’ve been through together.

Mario hears the door and turns his head, sees Mats approaching him and moves over a bit, so that his former Dortmund compatriot can sit down next to him.

“You okay?”

Mario nods. “Yeah, I guess. Just frustrated.”

“You know, Sami didn’t really mean it”, Mats says. “They’re just upset, Mesut and him. They’ve been going through a lot of Clásico tension in the last few years and now you’re in the middle too and they just don’t know how to deal with it. You remember Kevin and Manuel? Was the same for them with the Schalke and Dortmund derbies, but it got better.”

Mario just shrugs. “Certainly a lot better since Manu joined Munich.”

“Yeah, well… That’s just how things are, sometimes. We’ll all get used to it.” Mats takes a deep breath, looks at the clouded sky, then back at him. “You really love that club, huh?”

He bites his lip. “I guess. Bit more than I anticipated to be honest. But it’s just-… I don’t even know, you know. It’s like this big, massive vortex that just pulls you in the second you put on the jersey. I can’t explain it. I just know how it is.”

“I’m happy for you, really”, the centre-back says and smiles and puts his hand on Mario’s shoulder to give it a squeeze. “We all are. You deserve it. Hell, you should’ve seen Kloppo’s face when you scored against Real. Fucking priceless.”

Mario’s chest aches a little bit when he thinks about his former coach, a father figure in so many ways who’s always supported him, no matter what was written about him and the transfer and the pressure by press and fans. Who’d understood that he just wanted, just had to move on, search for new things, search for new limits. 

 

Practice the next day doesn’t go well for him. His head is still a bit messed up and he’s so used to Thiago, to Andrés and Leo and Pedro that he automatically passes the ball into the direction they would run, into spaces that the others don’t see and he gets frustrated and yells until Jogi pulls him over to the sideline, tells him that he needs to relax, to calm down, that he’s not going to start against Sweden unless he gets his act together and Mario isn’t even disappointed.  
He just needs to get back to Barcelona. 

 

*

 

They lead La Liga by eight points heading into Christmas break and Mario spends the holidays at his parents’. He sits at big dinner tables, visits friends and relatives and wonders how he never noticed before how small and limited everything seems.  
His mother tells him one evening that he’s changed and he can’t tell if she means it in a good or a bad way, his mind is so focused on football, on the past games and the ones he has ahead of him, Champions League and Copa del Rey and all.  
Mario initially planned on staying until after New Year’s Eve, but he takes an early flight back to Spain just after a few days, somehow can’t take it anymore and thinks that maybe there’s a thing as being too focused, too determined, too willing to give all and win all.

He calls Thiago as soon as he gets back – he doesn’t have a clue where Leo’s holidaying, just knows that he’s not home – and the midfielder is surprised, pleasantly and they meet up and Mario is weirdly relieved to see him again, feels like it’s easier to let go of the pressure he built up himself and they end up spending the rest of the holidays together, barely apart for more than a few hours at a time. They go to the movies or take walks around a festive Barcelona, scarves and hats covering their faces, or they just stay in, either at his or Thiago’s apartment, watch game shows and cartoons and the Premier League and eat chocolate ice cream on the couch. 

They meet up with Thiago’s brother and some other members of their squad for New Year’s, dance and sing karaoke and talk football and Mario gets ridiculously drunk on stupid jello-shots that Piqué brought with him and are probably made of eighty percent vodka.  
He almost misses the countdown to midnight, but when the clock hits twelve, he feels Thiago’s arms around him, pulling him close in a tight embrace, lips ghosting over his neck and cheek.

 

*

 

Mario doesn’t know how it starts or when it starts or if it’s possible that it’s been this way since the beginning, but he’s crushing on Leo, badly. His legs turn to jelly every time the Argentine smiles at him or brushes his skin with his hand during practice.  
He really notices it when he’s scored or Leo has scored, when he’s pressed up close against him and can feel Leo’s heart beating against his chest.  
So far he’s got it under control, he thinks, but just in case, he waits for Leo to finish showering or hurries in ahead of him, because his imagination is already inspired enough without anything else added to it. 

Mario isn’t sure if Leo notices or not. He might, he thinks sometimes, there’s just something in the way he looks at him, because Leo is much more observant than people give him credit for, but he can’t be sure and he’s definitely not stupid enough to open his mouth and say something himself and ruin the close relationship they have. But it’s not like he’s the only one watching Leo closely at practice, everyone always has one or two eyes on him, it’s just the way it is.

At least he improves on the pitch, gets to start regularly with Thiago now, giving Andrés and Sergio some well-deserved rest and they get better every time they play, constructing attacks so intricate and lethal that their opponents don’t know what’s hit them until the ball dances in the net.  
It’s February when the stories start. The press writes about them and their style and about how they’re like Xavi and Iniesta, the brain of the Barça midfield and Mario doesn’t know what to make of it, because they’re nowhere near that brilliance yet and because Andrés is still around and still a fucking genius.

But ultimately, he doesn’t care, no one does, Mario just knows that playing with Thiago is nothing short of magical, feels natural and amazing and like his football soul is split in two.  
They start to be inseparable on and off the pitch and Thiago is probably one of the best friends he’s ever had and sometimes they laugh so hard that Mario thinks he’s gonna choke. He takes his mind off Leo too and the feelings he might have for the forward and he can forget the dilemma he’s actually in, just for a while, until Leo smiles at him again and the entire ordeal starts anew.

 

*

 

It’s a random moment in the locker room when Mario notices and he’s quite stunned that he hasn’t noticed before that no one wears the number 7. Not since last year. Not since Villa.  
Not since that seemingly unimportant game against an inferior La Liga team, Barcelona had been winning easily, but in the last minutes a defender’s foot hit Villa’s knee instead of the ball, ripping all the sinews and ligaments and splitting his kneecap in half, ending his career prematurely. Mario remembers the headlines; he remembers seeing the scene being replayed over and over again and the sick feeling in his stomach. He remembers the Spanish striker walking around on crotches, his press conference, his good-bye to the fans, to Barcelona and Spain, to his life in football.  
He doesn’t know much about the person Villa, just the footballer, Spain’s top scorer. He thinks he has kids, isn’t sure how many and he heard about a divorce, but that could’ve been some other rumour.  
But now he wonders if there’s a reason behind the lack of an El Siete; if it’s just a coincidence or if they chose not to give it to anyone to honor their former teammate.  
He’s curious, wants to ask someone about it, but feels it might be inappropriate. So he forgets about. At least for a few months. 

 

*

 

He successfully manages to avoid being alone with Leo until March, only meets up with him outside of training if there are others joining them, but then they travel to Milan for the Champions League and they stay in a small hotel just on the outskirts.  
Mario usually rooms with Thiago and Leo with Dani or sometimes Masche, rarely Andrés, so he’s surprised when Andrés walks off with Thiago, who throws a slightly confused look over his shoulder at him, and Leo steps up to him, keys dangling between his fingers and he smiles and Mario thinks – Shit.

“Wanna go upstairs and unpack?”

Mario can only nodd shortly and keeps his gaze firmly on his sneakers while they’re standing in the elevator, walking to their room and he feels Leo’s eyes on him the entire time and it’s fucking torture, because he feels the heat creeping up his neck and he prays to God he’s not fucking blushing and –

He just quickly drops his bag next to the bed closer to the door and almost runs into the ensuite bathroom. Mario puts his hands on the counter before turning on the tab and splashes some water in his face to get his face to cool down. He relishes the feeling of the tiny droplets tickling his skin, running down his cheeks, framing his jaw, trippling along his neck until they disappear under the collar of his shirt.  
The reflection of himself in the mirror almost scares the shit out of him, because he suddenly looks tired and exhausted, pale, and just like he’s fucking haunted or something and he dreads going back into the room, dreads having to face Leo on his own, because he knows – he knows – that something’s going on, otherwise Leo wouldn’t have disrupted the usual rooming arrangements.  
Mario also knows that he can’t stay in this tiny Italian bathroom for the rest of his life and will have to come out eventually and maybe it’s better if it’s sooner rather than later.  
And this is Leo he’s talking about, it’s not like he’s going to kill him, whatever it is he wants to talk to him about. 

Although Mario has an inkling of what it might be. And it scares him. More than a little.

He takes a few deep breaths and they come out ragged and stagnant, dries off his face and hopes that it’s a normal colour again, not that slight hue between green and yellow and grey. 

When he walks back into the room he sees that Leo’s left it too, that he’s sitting on the tiny balcony overlooking the rear courtyard and Mario briefly wonders if he should just make a run for it, but he’s not a little kid anymore, he’s a grown man, an established Barcelona player and he has no reason to hide from Leo. 

He steps outside and even though spring’s really close and they’re in Italy, it’s still relatively cold, which is good for the match tomorrow, but not for sitting outside when it’s already half-dark and a cool wind is blowing and they’re both not wearing a jacket, because Pep will kill them if they catch a cold.  
Leo doesn’t look up when he sits down next to him and the rusty chair screetches in his ears. Leo also stays quiet and Mario isn’t quite sure if the Argentine expects him to say anything.  
And it’s not like the silence is actually bothering him, it’s not uncomfortable in the least. It’s rather TOO comfortable, to sit here with Leo like that, looking out into nowhere, already thinking about the next day’s match, how they’re gonna play and what they’re gonna do to win again, hopefully, because Mario can’t lose, he just can’t lose with Barcelona and so far he’s managed that. They haven’t been beaten all season, not by anyone, just two sneaky draws, one against Valencia and one against Manchester City in the Champions League Round of 16. It’s quite scary, if Mario really thinks about it. Barcelona is like a winning machine, working it’s way to the next triple and Mario is part of that machine and he just has to make sure that it keeps on going. He owes it to the team.

“You know, I played Inter with Dortmund two years ago”, he says eventually to start some sort of conversation. “First Inter in the Group Stage, then AC in the Quarters. They killed us. 5-1. Felt like I was being molested to be honest.” He laughs dryly and starts fiddling with the hems of his shirt. “That’s never gonna happen to me again though. Not to me, not to us, to Barcelona. I’ll make sure of that.”

It’s only then that Leo finally turns to face him and there’s a certain expression in his eyes that Mario is unable to decipher properly; he seems deep in thought and yet paradoxically focused, like he is reliving a memory that is unfolding itself in Mario’s eyes and face, some sort of mirrored déjá-vu, faded and gone and yet momentarily dayclear. 

“You hold on too tight”, Leo says and Mario looks at him, startled, isn’t sure what he means by that, it seems oddly out of context. The Argentine probably sees his confusion and continues. “You have to have control over everything, you keep a tight grip on football, on your life and you can’t see that you’re slowly crushing yourself.”

Mario can just stare at him for a while, feels strangely defensive, because it seems like Leo is slowly peeling away layer after layer to get to his core and he’s not sure he wants to let him do that.

“But control is good”, he answers. “Focus is good. And I need to focus, I want to get better, I want to win and-“

“You don’t have to prove yourself, Mario”, Leo interrupts and Mario swallows, feels a lump rising in his throat because the other one’s gaze is so honest and intense and caring and he just doesn’t know how to deal with that at the moment. 

“But-“, he tries again without even knowing what he wants to say.

“But nothing. Pep brought you here, because he already knew what you could do. Not because he wanted you to show it every second of every day. You’re putting yourself under pressure for no reason. I get it, I did the same when I was younger. Took me a while to get that although the pressure at Barcelona is immense, you don’t have to feel any of it. Because the team carries it and the 99.000 culés in the Camp Nou carry it too.  
You just have to let them.”

Mario thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe, like someone is keeping a tight fist around his neck and the words that come out of his mouth are nothing more than a mumble. 

“It’s not that easy, I can’t, football is everything, it’s-“

“It’s not”, Leo says and Mario is genuinely surprised to hear that from Leo, because he thought Leo, especially Leo, would understand that without football, there’s nothing. Without football, HE is nothing.  
“Don’t get me wrong. I will love football until my last breath and I wouldn’t want to do anything else in the world. And you can sacrifice a lot for football. Just not yourself. You have to find a balance.” He smiles again, warmly and Mario is absolutely stunned, because Leo is not that much older than him, but he still suddenly feels like a stupid child next to him.  
“I found mine and then I won the World Cup. So there must be some truth in it.”

Mario can’t look him in the eye anymore, because if he does, he will snap and although Leo makes perfect sense, and he gets it and he wants to let go a little, wants to release the tension, he just can’t. He can’t lose control because he might slip up one day and even now with Leo looking at him like that he is just so fucking close and just wants to- needs to-… but he can’t, because then he will lose football, and that would kill him, he’s sure of that. 

“You don’t get it”, he says. “I can’t, okay? It’s-… You don’t get it.”

All of a sudden, Leo has grabbed his chin and looks him straight in the eye and Mario swallows.

“No. I do.”

He tries to shake his head, but Leo holds it firmly in plays. “You can’t, it’s not-“

“Mario. Listen to me.” He pauses and Mario can feel his heart pounding in his chest, thumping noise loud in his ears and Leo’s eyes so fucking close and intense and brutally honest. “I’ve been there. I know. I get it.”

It takes a few moments for Mario to actually process what Leo has just told him and then he’s completely stunned and doesn’t know what to do or say so he just keeps staring, wide-eyed and unsure.

“And nobody here is ever going to judge you. Nobody.”

 

They win the game against Inter by 2-0, which means they’re almost certainly through to the semi-final, the return leg is at the Camp Nou. Cesc scores a penalty and Pedro nets a brilliant volley halfway through the second half and although Mario doesn’t score and doesn’t get to play the full ninety minutes, because Pep’s decided to rest him, he feels lighter than he has in a long time.

 

*

 

Things change between him and Leo. Well, not really between them, it’s more that they change for Mario and he thinks that although they’ve gotten a lot closer since Milan and he’d now trust Leo with anything and the Argentine is slowly but steadily turning into his mentor, he’s falling out of love with him again. And it’s a big relief, because even though Leo has basically opened a gate that Mario thought to be closed and locked, there was just something about Leo’s words that make him think; make him think that Leo’s settled.

But as his relationship with Leo intensifies and moves to a new level, he feels Thiago pulling away from him and he doesn’t even know how or why. Just knows that one day at practice, the number six just goes to stretch with Alexis instead of him and they stop driving to the training grounds together in the morning and Thiago doesn’t call him every day and they just generally don’t hang out anymore and it actually really hurts Mario, because he doesn’t know what he’s doing or what he’s done and he doesn’t know what to say to Thiago, so he just ends up leaving it like that.

Mario makes it through a few days before he starts missing him, insanely missing him. He realizes how much of his daily routine is actually dependant on Thiago, how much time they really spent together, from early in the morning until late in the evening, sharing a car and all their meals, week after week and now that that has suddenly come to an abrupt halt makes Mario feel like he’s hit a brick wall, full on.

Of course everyone notices. Nothing ever goes unnoticed at Barcelona, Mario has learnt that much; he think a flea could cough and the entire squad would turn their heads. 

“What happened to you and Thiago?” Cesc asks him during a short break and takes a long sip from his water, sweat dripping down his face, sparkling a little in the sun. It’s pleasantly warm, a nice, clear spring day and they’re playing Getafe the following day, not too worried, but nevertheless always working and preparing hard. They want to take as many goals as possible from this match and not conceive any. “Did you have a fight or something?”

Mario is juggling a ball on his left foot, briefly glances over to where Thiago is sitting with Andreu, staring off into space. “Nope”, he just answers, because they haven’t. “Just…” he trails off and shrugs, hopes that Cesc understands that he doesn’t really know himself.

A few days later it’s Pedro. They’re just doing their morning stretches and the striker is pressing his leg down to his chest, Mario feels the pull at the back of his thigh and adjusts a little. 

“Any reason you guys aren’t talking anymore?” he asks him.

Again, Mario can only shrug. “Not really”, because there isn’t. At least he can’t think of one. 

In the course of one week practically everyone approaches him about Thiago and every single time, Mario can’t give them an answer. Andrés presses a little more than the others, is concerned, of course, he’s the captain, preaching harmony and stuff, but there’s not really anything that Mario can do, because it’s Thiago who’s started this and he hopes that they’re pressuring him the same way they are questioning him.  
Even Pep pulls him to the side after training, two days before the Champions League semi against Bayern Munich and he looks openly worried, and it strikes Mario how much their coach actually cares for them, not as footballers and functioning athletes, but human beings. He just wants them to be happy. And he senses that Mario’s not.

“I don’t want to interfere”, he tells him, “but I do want you to settle this, before it affects your performance. I don’t know what happened between you two”, and Pep pauses and looks at him, long and… and fucking knowing something that Mario doesn’t and maybe he does, because he’s had to deal with his players for a couple of years now, “but go and talk to him. We’ve got an important match ahead of us.”

Mario just nods, doesn’t know why it’s up to him, he didn’t do anything, Thiago’s the one being weird and strange and ignoring and just fucking hurting him.

The only one that never questions him about Thiago is Leo. 

 

*

 

They travel to Munich for the semi final, and Mario thinks that the Champions League trophy is already within their reach, they just have to stretch a little to get their hands on it and the Bavarians are just a hurdle along the way; a hurdle he’s sure they’ll overcome, like they’ve overcome everything this season.  
They’re fucking unbeatable.

He still hasn’t talked to Thiago, not because he doesn’t want to; he just doesn’t know what to say to him. And, if he’s totally honest, he’s just really hurt.  
Thiago had been his best friend in Barcelona, apart from Leo, but the Argentine is a different kind of friend, he’s just like him, they’re both rather quiet and composed and only slowly open up to people; Thiago is exactly the opposite, extroverted and always joking and laughing and basically sharing his life with everyone. He was his perfect counterpart, not only on the pitch.

Mario rooms with Leo again and he doesn’t say anything, again, and Mario starts to think that maybe Leo knows something, like he knows a lot of thinks but keeps them to himself and there’s just the slightest possibility that Thiago talked to him and told him what’s wrong. So he just asks him.

“Do you know something?”

They’re in their room, splayed out on their respective beds, watching some German movie on the TV that Mario half-heartedly translates to Leo and he’s kind of surprised how fluent his Spanish has become in less than a year.  
Neither of them is paying too much attention to the actors and Leo turns his head.

“About what?”

Mario almost rolls his eyes, because he knows as well as Leo that the Argentine knows exactly what he’s talking about. “About Thiago. Did he tell you anything?”

Leo’s eyes are back on the TV, something’s exploding, there’s a lot of fire and the screen momentarily lights up the otherwise darkened room.  
“He didn’t need to.”

Mario’s eyebrows shoot up. “What? Does that mean you know what’s gotten into him?”

“I guess.”

He’s sitting up now and looks at Leo’s relaxed form and he can’t believe how the other one can be so fucking calm. “And?”

Leo’s eyes are on him again and he watches him, long and quiet and relaxed and Mario is almost bloody shaking, because how could Leo have known all this time and not tell him about it? Doesn’t he fucking see that he’s turned into a mental wreck over this shit?

“If you can’t figure it out yourself, I am in no position to say anything.”

And that’s it. Mario knows the Argentine is not going to add another word and he lets out a frustrated sigh and sinks back into the pillows.  
It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep and he dreams and it’s fucking weird.

 

He’s at the Camp Nou and the pitch is flooded, the water cold and it feels like it’s slowly freezing around his ankles and he can barely move forward. He sees the goal, empty but so far away and Thiago is standing right in front of it, waving, shouting, but he can’t hear him and no matter how hard he tries to move forward, he doesn’t seem to get any closer.  
A white wall rises out of nowhere, right in front of him, separating him from Thiago and it has Nuri’s face on it, and Sami’s and Mesut’s and all his former teammates and they yell at him, “Fucking culé!” and “Traitor!” and Mario is frozen to the spot, stuck and he wants to yell out to Thiago, but he can’t move his lips. He turns his head and sees Leo standing at the sideline and the Argentine waves at him and he still can’t fucking twitch a muscle.  
Then someone steps up, takes Leo’s hand and Mario thinks he knows who it is, but he suddenly can’t see, can’t feel and the white wall closes down on him, circles him and eventually wraps around him to crush his bones. 

 

Mario wakes up with a start and it’s still dark and he’s sweating and everything’s spinning and he just makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up into the toilet.

 

Stomach bug. That’s the diagnosis he gets once Leo picks him up from the bathroom floor and takes him to Emili. Stress induced. Pep orders him to stay at the hotel, stay in bed, he doesn’t even get to sit on the bench, can only watch on TV how Barcelona struggles and only manages to hang on to a 1-0 lead scored by Alexis in the 34th minute.

 

*

 

He has to stay away from practice for two days once they return to Barcelona and he misses the league game against Athletic Bilbao and Mario is really annoyed and pissed off; with Emili for diagnosing and banning him from football, with Pep for telling him to get some rest. But mostly he’s angry with himself for getting sick, for being weak, for not being able to help the team. For not finding his balance. 

Leo and Andrés come over the first day he has to stay at home and he’s fucking relieved to have some company, at least for a little while, because it’s only been a few hours without training and he’s already bored out of his mind and finds himself with nothing to do after cleaning his entire flat, doing the laundry and answering all the emails in his inbox.  
They bring him some soup, which is more of a joke rather than for actual purpose, but he puts it in his fridge for later anyway, he doesn’t like cooking and he’s shit at it too.  
It’s obvious to Mario that they’re trying to cheer him up, not talking about anything serious, not even mentioning Thiago’s name, just retelling some jokes Piqué and Cesc came up with and they’re really bad, actually fucking awful, but Mario laughs anyway, or maybe simply because of that.

They leave after two hours and even though it’s still early, Mario goes to bed, because there’s just nothing else to do.  
The second day is even worse and he ends up watching the entire Godfather trilogy, which makes him feel slightly depressed and nauseous, because of all the noise and the shooting and most of all the blood. He does the dishes, has some soup and more tea than he’s ever drank before in his life, calls his mother. She seems worried, but he tells her it’s fine, which is true, it’s not a big deal, he’s feeling just fine, it’s just a precaution and he’s only bored. 

The doorbell rings some time in the afternoon, Mario assumes it’s Leo again, or Andrés, or the both of them, possibly Cesc and Piqué wanting to annoy the shit out of him.  
When he opens the door and sees Thiago he thinks he’s hallucinating, maybe he really is sick, maybe something’s wrong with his brain and so he blinks a few times, but Thiago doesn’t disappear, just looks at with, smiling slightly with great uncertainty; he’s nervous.

“Hey”, he says after they’ve been looking at each other for minutes. 

“Hey”, Mario replies numbly and feels light-headed, unable to move, stunned and just a bit freaked out, because he’s not prepared for this, whatever this is, he is just in sweatpants and an old BVB-shirt.

“Can I come in?” Thiago asks quietly, very much unlike him and only then does Mario see that he’s holding a small box in his hands and – 

“Yeah… sure.” 

Mario steps aside and Thiago brushes past him and he momentarily feels their arms touch, smells his shampoo, or deodorant or whatever, just him and his head is buzzing.  
He follows Thiago into the living room, where the born Brazilian has just placed the box on the table and now stands unsurely in the middle of the room and it seems weird in Mario’s eyes, it seems weird and wrong, because Thiago’s been here so many times, they’ve spent so many hours together in this room that the midfielder could have been considered his roommate, his-

“What’s that?” he asks, interrupting his own thoughts and points towards the box.

Thiago looks at it and then back at him, scratches his head. “Just some stuff, some sort of care-packett, you know. Figured you’d be bored and banging your head against the wall or something.”

Mario has to force back a smile. “You know that I’m back at training tomorrow. It’s not like I’m out for weeks.”

“I know”, Thiago replies and smiles shyly at him. “But it’s also partly a ‘Sorry I’ve been an idiot please forgive me’-gift.”

And that makes Mario laugh, honestly and genuinely laugh, like he hasn’t in a long time, not since… not since they stopped talking and suddenly he feels so relieved, so fucking glad that he can only go up to Thiago to pull him into a bone-crushing hug, as the puts his arms around his neck and feels Thiago’s arms encircling his waist and they stay like that for what seems like ninety minutes plus extra time. 

“Fuck, I’ve really missed you”, Thiago almost breathes into his ear.

“Tell me about it”, Mario says and finally feels like he can let go of the midfielder again and he looks at him, still standing close. “What the fuck was going on?”

Immediately, Thiago looks away, bites his lip, scratches his head again, then shrugs and shows him a crooked smile. “Not important, just… you know.”

But Mario doesn’t know and he doesn’t think that it wasn’t anything important, because that would be unlike Thiago; he wouldn’t just stop being his friend because of bloody nothing. But he doesn’t ask again, hopes that Thiago will tell him when he wants to, if he wants to.

“Okay”, he replies and then points at the box. “What’s in it?”

Something’s lifted off of Thiago’s shoulder and he hurries over to the table to open the lid, almost proudly presents its contents. There’s DVDs and and a few video games, a liitle booklet full of Sudokus – what the fuck? – and riddles, a boardgame, cards and so much chocolate that Mario thinks he’s becoming diabetic just by looking at it.  
He takes out one of the DVDs and raises his eyebrows at Thiago.

“American Pie? Do you want to make me ill again?”

Thiago snorts, playfully offended. “Fuck you, it’s funny.”

“It stopped being funny when I was fifteen.”

“Well, then you really have a crappy sense of humour.” 

But he’s only joking and Mario is too, every movie is fucking hilarious when he’s watching it with Thiago, so they settle on the couch in comfortable silence, watch three movies in a row, all not very good, nevertheless Mario doesn’t mind, because Thiago lets him have all the cushions on his couch and lets him rest his head on his shoulder and when it’s dark outside he switches off the TV and just lies back, pulls Mario with him and they sleep.

 

When he wakes up the next morning, Thiago’s already up, moving around in his kitchen like it’s his, making coffee and toast and when Mario step in he looks up and smiles widely and they sit at the counter together, no need to say much, in comfortable silence, and let a chocolate bar melt on the hot bread.  
They arrive at practice together and the entire squad looks so genuinely relieved that Mario feels bad for worrying them.

“Fucking finally”, Piqué almost breathes a sigh of relief, a bit overdramatically. “I take you guys kissed and made up?”

And Mario nearly falls over his own feet, doesn’t really know way and Thiago gives Piqué a playful but nevertheless strong shove. “Fuck off.”

Mario looks up, sees Leo and again gets that feeling that the Argentine is a few steps ahead of him.

 

*

 

They play Bayern Munich in the Camp Nou, Toni and Thomas and Manuel all pull him into a short hug in the tunnel and Mario is relieved, mainly because Pep lets him play even though he’d been sick just a week ago, but also because there’s none of that tension that was lingering around during the National call-up. Basti only manages a firm handshake, but he’s always only been really cuddly with Lukas around, so Mario doesn’t worry.  
They’re good.  
It’s even better that they win 4-1, him and Thiago sharing their usual moments of telepathic combination, releasing Leo and Pedro twice and Mario doesn’t even mind that Pep takes him out after 60 minutes. They’re in the final.

Paris is waiting to repeat itself.

 

*

 

It happens the night they win the league against Valencia and it’s a tough match, their last of the season with the necessity to be won and it’s an exact copy of what happened a few weeks before at the Copa del Rey final.  
Andrés to Cesc to Mario to Thiago to Leo. Goal.  
Piqué to Dani to Thiago to Mario to Dani. Goal.

The celebrations start on pitch, almost instantly and there are big chunks of red and blue confetti flying around and Mario’s sure he’s swallowed quite a few bits while screaming and shouting at the top of his voice. He tells Thiago and the number six just flashes a big smile and tells him that now he’s blaugrana on the inside too and Mario pulls him into a hug and they walk around the pitch in a half-embrace, regularly ambushing other teammates, jumping on their backs and pulling at their shirts and then they’re running around like little children, empty a bottle of champagne on Piqué and the defender chases them all the way across the pitch. Thiago’s hands never leave his skin, they’re warm and just a little rough, but they’re perfect. It’s perfect.

They are the last to go to the changing room and Mario thinks he’s probably already more than a little bite drunk, from the champagne and the beer and the adrenaline, so his head is buzzing and spinning and he nearly falls over as he tries to pull off his socks. The others laugh at him loudly, but Mario doesn’t mind, he hasn’t stopped laughing in what feels like hour. As most of the squad keeps pouring out, leaving for the bus, Mario and Thiago still haven’t made it to the showers, but not even Andrés scolds them for it, not on a night like this, not after a performance like theirs. 

They keep on shouting and yelling and singing “Campeones” over the spray of the showers and Mario throws a bar of soap at Thiago who catches it and pivots it back at him and he tries to get out of its way, slips again and almost hits the tiles, but then Thiago is right there, catches him before he can split open his skull and suddenly everything freezes.  
Thiago’s face is only inches away from his, he could count his eyelashes if he wanted to, eyes overclouded by something that Mario doesn’t want to name and their chests are touching, he can feel Thiago’s heartbeat, beating in a fast and wild pattern, equalling his own and their skin is hot and flushed against each other, the midfielder’s arms firmly holding him upright, but for a minute Mario thinks he’s floating in midair. 

He is unable to tell who moves first, it’s like when they’re on the pitch, anticipating every movement so well and instinctively that it feels like they’re working as one.  
Mario is shoved into the wall and his bare back collides with the wet and cold tiles and Thiago is pressed up right against him, barely an inch of air fits between and there’s a fucking fire burning in his chest, in his belly, in his groin and shit! He doesn’t know if he can take it anymore, but it’s like Thiago’s heard him, because he pushes closer – even closer – and then their lips are touching, almost cautiously at first, but then Mario’s had enough, has had enough of bloody waiting for something he didn’t know he was waiting for and he’s biting Thiago’s bottom lip, pulls at it and finally – fucking finally – leans in deep and they kiss desperately, intensely and Mario thinks he’s gonna burst.

He needs to touch Thiago, needs to feel his hot skin that smells like saltwater and sun and just him and so his fingertips move up his chest and over his shoulders, linger around his neck to deepen the kiss even more, tongues brushing, breaths mingling and Mario barely manages to swallow back a moan.  
How has he not wanted to do this before? How has he not bloody noticed he wanted to do this? Because now he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop. Ever.

Thiago’s hands move down his waist, stay on his hips, tickle and tease and Mario shivers beneath his touch and then suddenly Thiago yanks his legs up and he wraps them around his waist, tightly and then the Brazilian rocks forward and – 

“Fuck, Thiago!” and this time Mario can’t hold back a moan, loud and deep and his head sinks back against the tiles, his mouth open, eyelids fluttering and he feels his friend’s hot breath just below his jaw, teeth grazing, licking, biting down and sucking and he’s really being pulled into a vortex now; a vortex made of hot water and steam, of bare skin, of blaugrana and football and winning and just Thiago.  
He’s not embarrassed for writhing and moaning under his touch like a needy teenager, because Thiago is responding just as eagerly, if not more and their lips meet heated, again and again and fucking again, they’re rocking against each other and touching every inch of skin that they can and it doesn’t take long before they’re both coming, fast and hard and Mario thinks for a second that something on his inside has exploded, fears that it might’ve been his heart.  
But then they slowly sink down to the floor, still breathing like they’ve just played ten football matches without half-time, foreheads touching and Mario looks into Thiago’s eyes that he always thought of as stunning and breathtaking and simply beautiful and he knows that his heart hasn’t burst; it has just doubled in size.

Thiago smiles at him in a way Mario has never seen him smile at anyone and he touches his cheek, just lightly, barely a whisper of a touch, like he’s afraid that Mario might dissolve beneath his fingers. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this…”

“I’m sorry”, he says, because he is. Sorry that he didn’t notice before, sorry that he’d been so blind.

“Don’t be”, Thiago replies and just like that, it’s different, but they’re still them. Just them and it’s good.

 

*

 

When they finally manage to shower and to get dressed and enter they bus more than late, the entire team is looking at them and Mario can’t help but squirm a bit as Thiago pulls him to free seats, because he thinks they know, they have to, and he doesn’t know how to react, if he should react.  
As soon as he’s taken a seat, Piqué pulls at his arm from the other side of the aisle and looks at his hand and Mario’s confused, pulls it back and looks at the centre-back.

“What are you doing?”

Piqué grins wide. “Just checking.”

“Checking what?”

“If you’d grown webs or something. You guys were in the shower for an awfully long time”, and then he winks, still grinning like a lunatic and Mario blushes, slumps back in his seat and hears Thiago laugh quietly next to him, tries to send a glare in his direction, but doesn’t really manage that, given their previous actions.  
Thiago just shrugs, smile almost splitting his face and puts an arm around his shoulder, pulls him close.

Mario turns his head again and lets his eyes wander around the bus and suddenly they catch Leo’s and the Argentine is smiling, barely visible and he holds his gaze for a while before turning around again, continuing his conversation with Dani.  
And suddenly Mario knows; knows that Leo knew all along.

 

*

 

Mario hopes for a miracle. He doesn’t like Manchester United, he really doesn’t and he never has, but he finds himself rooting for them, because they just need to beat Real Madrid. Beating the Premiere League winners in Paris is an achievable task, one that Mario is ready to take on.  
He’s not sure he’s ready for another Clásico. 

But Manchester doesn’t win. They lose 5-4 after penalties. Rooney misses. 

Fuck.

 

*

 

Piqué chuckles and Mario raises his eyebrows at him. They’re at the airport, heading to the Champions League final, four trophies already in their pocket, a fifth one to be added, hopefully.

“What’s so funny?” and the defender wiggles his eyebrows and Mario already regrets asking.

“Paris”, Piqué answers in a sing-songy voice. “The city of loooooove.”

Mario rolls his eyes, tries not to blush, something’s he’s had a lot of practice with ever since their La Liga win in Valencia, because Thiago and him, that’s sort of an open secret within the squad, or not even a secret, it just is and they are and Piqué regularly tries to tease and embarrass him in every way possible and even though it’s annoying as shit, Mario knows that’s just how Piqué is and so he doesn’t mind most of the time.

“You’ll never grow up, huh?”

Piqué shakes his head. “Well, where’s the fun in that?”

And then they’re ready to board and Mario finds Thiago and Piqué finds Cesc and they take off; off towards Paris, towards Madrid, towards another Clásico, ready to make history.

 

*

 

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

They’re in the tunnel in Paris, Mario can hear the crowd, he can feel the intensity and he’s not just nervous anymore. He’s panicking. And when the Real Madrid players walk up next to them, he really thinks he just gonna throw up on their shows, because his stomach keeps twisting and turning and doing bloody somersaults.  
He thinks what makes it worse is that Thiago’s not in the tunnel with, but already out there, sitting on the bench, because Pep doesn’t want him to play the full 90 minutes; he had twisted his ankle a week ago during practice and is probably only going to come on during the second half. 

“You’re not.”

Thank God for Leo, Mario thinks as the Argetine hugs him from behind, lips close to his ears so that he only has to whisper for Mario to understand him.

“This is your game, ok? And we’re gonna win it for you. You’re gonna win it for us.”

He takes one of Leo’s hands and holds it tight, knuckles showing white like their opponents jerseys. “Thanks. But I’m still freaking out.”

Leo chuckles. “I know. Me too. That’s good though. Shows that you care.” Then he leans even closer. “Maybe we should’ve come up with a way to intimidate them. War cries or something. Or a Haka like the New Zealand rugby team. That’s actually pretty scary.”

Mario starts laughing loudly, maybe too loudly given the occasion, but he doesn’t care and he doesn’t even think about where Leo picked that bit about the Haka up, but he has the image in his head now, of their squad facing Madrid, chanting and clapping their thighs and rolling their eyes. Worth a try.  
Because with Madrid you never now. You never know if you can immediately drive them back into their own half and plow over them with eighty percent of possession and another manita. Or if they put on the pressure from the first second, playing aggressively and with long passes forward into the others half. They’re strangely inconsistent lately, Mario has noticed, what probably cost them the league in the end as well as the surprise defeat by the hands of Valencia in the Copa semis. 

But it’s Madrid and this is the Champions League and they’ve defeated Manchester United and you just never know.

They walk out and line up and Mario sees Thiago smiling and giving him a thumbs-up and the Champions League theme is sounding in his ears. He can feel Leo shift to his right and Pedro jumps up and down to his left and when the Real players walk over to shake their hands, Mario doesn’t smile. There’s nothing to smile about and he hasn’t forgotten the last two times they’ve met, he only curtly nods at Mesut and when Nuri is in front of him he fixes him with a piercing glance.  
Mario wants to tell him that he doesn’t need him to be great, has never needed him and that he’s made it to where he is all by himself. That today he will triumph and walk away without looking back and Nuri will be the one left behind. 

It only takes Mario about ten seconds to realize that they haven’t caught Real Madrid on a bad day like he initially hoped. They do a far better job keeping the ball than the last two times he’s played them and they have to work their asses off during the first twenty minutes to keep the Blancos from scoring. Mario is constantly forced back into their own half, he and Andrés try to thread the ball through the midfield, but even Leo, Pedro and Alexis can’t get very close to Casillas’ box.  
They’re throwing in everything they have but something’s just not right, he can see it on his teammates faces that they notice too, without having an answer for it.  
Maybe they’ve become accustomed to winning, not dropping a single point all season and dancing through the Champions League and they’re used to being the best and Madrid has just caught them on the wrong foot and maybe Xavi is the missing piece, maybe all this talk about his successor has overshadowed the fact that there is no one like him.  
That nobody can ever replace him, the midfield maestro, the genius.  
Mario is frustrated and angry with himself as he loses out to Mesut when he finally gets across the midfield line.

The goal by Benzema in the 41st minute is long overdue.

 

The general mood in the locker room is unusually tense and quiet and nobody really knows what to say, nobody really knows what’s actually wrong, just that something is just not working. Pep stays calm as always, tells them not to worry and freak out, tells them to get hold of the ball, keep possession and rebuild their confidence. He reminds them that they’ve been behind before, even if not this season, that they know how to deal with the pressure and the intense physique by Madrid. He puts his hands on his hips and looks at each and every one of his players and Mario feels unable to hold his gaze, because he feels guilty for underperforming. 

“I believe in you”, Pep says eventually and Mario knows he’s telling the truth, is overwhelmed by how much their coach values them, how highly he thinks of them. “All culés believe in you and Xavi and David and Carles believe in you, they’re cheering for you from the stands like all the other fans, because they all know you won’t disappoint them. We can turn this around. We will turn this around. Take the cup back home.” 

And then he leaves, gives them a few minutes to digest his words. Mario holds Thiago’s hand, looks up and glances around the room. Cesc and Piqué have already risen to their feet, tension visible in their shoulders, but also looking so determined that Mario thinks he can reach out and grab it. Dani is flexing his fingers, Víctor is pulling on his gloves, Pedro has one arm around Alexis, the other around Andreu, forcing him to an unnatural stretch. 

Andrés steps into the middle and ties the captain’s band around his right arm. “You heard Pep. We have to win this. And we will. Because I believe in you too. And because Xavi, David and Puyi are here and they know better than anyone what you guys are capable of. We have to win it for them.”

And Mario looks at Leo, who is his usual quiet and concentrated self, but now, something’s different. He can’t tell what exactly it is. He’s never seen Leo like this before and he probably only notices something’s changed because he knows the Argentine well by now, because they’ve shared a lot over the last ten months.  
Mario still can’t put a finger to it. Maybe it’s a special kind of determination, contempt, ambition, confidence or sheer will. Maybe it’s neither or a new combination of all.  
It’s a strange thing, but for some reason he can already see Leo’s goal.

It happens in the 50th minute and Mario is actually really freaked out by it, because he kind of foresaw this happening, exactly like this and maybe they’re so much a team that their heads just become one big mass.  
Leo steals the ball in midfield and runs and dribbles and fuck, Mario thinks there’s not gonna be anyone like him, there just cannot possibly be anyone like him ever again when he slams the ball past Casillas into the top right corner. 

They have to run halfway across the pitch to get to Leo, but they nevertheless do and Mario’s the first day and he jumps on Leo and they fall over and then Pedro jumps on him and gradually all the others pile on until he’s certain they must be crushing the Argentine, so he shuffles and eventually the team gets up again, smiling so hard that Mario feels drunk on their happiness and on Leo and his goal and the culés chanting El cant del Barça.

He walks back to their half with Leo, who, like always, makes the sign of the cross on his chest and then lifts his hands up in the air, points towards the sky, seven fingers held up and Mario doesn’t get it. 

But now that they’ve got the equalizer it’s an open game again and Madrid knows that too and Mario can sense that they’re running out of options as Andrés brilliantly keeps the ball away from them at all time and they dance around the whites with their usual tiki taka.  
They also get kicked again. A lot. In five minutes, Real collects four or five yellow cards, Mario’s not too sure and when there’s only twentyfive minutes left to play, Ramos knocks Andrés off his feet, because he gets too close to the goal.

Mario stays back, mainly because he doesn’t trust himself not to snap again and he can’t risk a card, can’t risk being sent off like Ramos is now, rightfully, as Andrés is carried off on a stretcher. His ankle looks swollen. He passes the captain’s band to Leo.  
When Thiago comes on, Mario can’t help but hug him tightly, because he’s so fucking relieved to have him on the pitch with him, because he always plays better when Thiago plays too and he just needs him. Maybe he’s being a bit too affectionate, but he doesn’t give a shit. It’s a final, it’s emotional, whatever, fuck it.

The next twenty minutes seems like the longest of his life and Casillas makes some tremendous saves to keep Madrid in the game, who are still incredibly strong despite being down one man.  
But Mario is calm, much calmer than before, because he never has to look at Thiago to know where he is and he knows that his passes will reach him even before he sends them off.

And it’s one of those times when he feels like nothing matters but the ball at his feet, everything else is far away and mute and gone and it’s a moment of absolute clarity, he can hear his own heartbeat, his own breath, smell the grass on which they’re playing and the warm air tickles his skin and the entire game unfolds and snaps into focus and he shoots.  
The ball cuts through the air like a sword, swirling and spinning and in slow motion and Casillas jumps and Carvalho throws his leg out but they can’t reach it.  
It hits the back of the net with a loud thud.

Mario feels like he’s flying, arms spread wide like wings, running across the pitch, blaugrana encircling him, the crest on hist chest beating in tune with his own heart and then Thiago grabs his face and presses their foreheads together and for a second Mario thinks he’s gonna kiss him, but he doesn’t, just keeps grinning, then shouts, barely audible over the chants of the culés.

“I fucking love you!”

 

*

 

Mario gets it. He finally gets it after all this time.

 

They’ve just gone back to the locker rooms after an almost endless celebration on the pitch, because they need to get changed, hurry up, get their flight home and celebrate some more, possibly for the next few days.  
Everyone’s calmed down a bit now, there’ll be more time to be crazy, at the moment they’re just exhausted and quietly happy and contempt and Mario really doesn’t want to let go of Thiago’s hand. Ever. 

When Xavi, David Villa and Carles Puyol step into the room it feels like they could just slip on the blaugrana jersey again and go back on the pitch with them – Mario sincerely wishes that they could. Neither of them has changed one bit it seems and only when Mario looks closely that he can make out the slight limp in Villa’s step.  
He can feel the atmosphere brighten even more, because they’re still part of the family and just as happy and ecstatic as they are and there are more hugs laughs and Mario thinks he’s gonna faint when all three come over to him, congratulate him on his goal and tell him that he was brilliant and he just – he can’t even –  
Thiago laughs at him for having practically swallowed his own tongue and then Andrés ushers them into the showers, because they have a plane to catch and are trailing behind and Mario just glances over his shoulder coincidentally.

He sees Xavi and Puyol leaving, but Villa’s staying behind, talking to Leo and Leo’s smiling, not wide but just deeply fucking happy and then Villa hugs him tight and long and Leo hugs back with equal force and buries his face in Villa’s neck and –  
It hits Mario like an ambos on the head. And suddenly everything makes sense.

The missing number 7. Leo’s talk about finding balance and a life aside from football; of him finally finding it. Villa’s divorce and his disappearance from the spotlights.  
Leo’s determination upon hearing of Villa’s presence.  
The seven fingers pointed towards the sky.

Someone tugs at his shirt and he snaps back into the present. Andrés looks at them, looks back at him, smiles and pulls him towards the showers.

“Come on”, he says. “They haven’t seen each other in a while.”

 

*

 

Mario thinks it’s strange how things sometimes turn out. If somebody had told him a year ago, that he would, the following June, be standing in the middle of he Camp Nou, surrounded by 99.000 culés and flashing lights and sparkling fireworks, celebrating a staggering five trophies after having scored the winner in the Champions League final, he would have declared that person insane, no doubt.  
If that person had then, on top of that, told him about Thiago and about falling in love head over heels and finding his soulmate on and off the pitch, he would’ve recommended having him sent to a nuthouse. 

But now he’s here, surrounded by this incredible team and they’re undoubtedly the best in the world and Mario never wants this to end, he never wants to leave again, because they have become his family, the Camp Nou has become his home and he is so happy he could burst and Thiago has wrapped his arms around him from behind and they’re hands are intertwined and they watch as Leo, as always, struggles to speak longer than ten seconds and as the crowd, as always, wants him to never stop.  
Right now, Mario doesn’t know if there’s anyone on earth who is as lucky as he is.

Suddenly Thiago pushes him forward and someone puts a ridiculous hat on his head and then Leo hands him the microphone and he’s in the spotlight.  
He can hear the crowd chanting his name, over and over again, and his heart is beating and the crest is pulsating and he’s is sure if someone shot him right now, he would bleed blaugrana.

He shouts into the night.

“Visca Barça!”

And Catalunya answers.

_The End._


End file.
